


On the Mend

by Hope



Series: 12 Days of Cliché [4]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Domesticity, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hurt/comfort of a different sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Mend

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http:)12 Days of Cliché. Thank you to cupidsbow for readthrough duties and titlage!

Jack fusses. "Is there anything I can do?" he asks for the fourth time, although he's paced back and forth into the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom in between times. So for all Ianto knows, there are four different Jacks, passing through portals to other dimensions within Ianto's house.

Unlikely. As much as Ianto admits it's his habit to make excuses for Jack's bad ones, even he will only draw it out so far.

"Just," he says irritably. "Sit down." Jack sits. "And get out of my light." Jack moves to sit on Ianto's opposite side. Ianto tilts towards the light again.

Jack fidgets. "Why's it taking so long?"

Ianto peers at him disapprovingly, over the invisible recollection of his father's half-moon spectacles. "Not all of us heal instantly, you know."

Still, when he turns back to it, his body betrays him in favour of Jack's whims again, attempting to speed the process despite his better judgement. The needle jams with a squeamish amount of speed and force into the ball of Ianto's thumb, and he hisses sharply through his teeth and jerks his hand away.

"What happened?"

Ianto suspects that Jack is more concerned with the mending of the coat, rather than the un-mending of Ianto.

"Stuck my thumb," Ianto says, frowning at the dark bead of blood swelling. It gleams like a jewel in the lamplight, but in a moment or two its surface tension will fracture and the red will map onto his thumbprint instead.

"Give it," Jack says, waving his hands in a beckoning gesture, lips already pursing.

Ianto hesitates, long enough to process _why_ he's hesitating; the first instinct not to stick his thumb in his own mouth but to blot it on the rough wool in his lap. The fabric is dark enough that the spot would be invisible, and the desire to soak a miniscule bit of his DNA into Jack's perpetual armour is embarrassingly appealing.

Then again, there's probably already _plenty_ of Ianto's DNA soaked into the coat. And the whole thought is ridiculous anyway; Ianto is the one who takes it to the damn dry cleaner twice a month. He'll just have to settle on leaving invisible stitches instead.

"Come on," Jack says, thankfully mistaking the reason for Ianto's hesitation; "I'm practically a connoisseur of your bodily fluids." He smirks.

Ianto rolls his eyes, then thrusts his thumb out, hitchhiker-like, and Jack latches instantly.

"I could write a book," Jack muses, half-garbled around the digit, proceeding as usual as if his jokes are also destined to never die.

"As long as you change the names," Ianto says mildly.

Cool air creeps onto Ianto's wet skin as Jack smiles, and Ianto resists the urge to hook his thumb behind Jack's teeth. "How else will I remember?" Jack asks guilelessly, and closes his lips again, tongue swiping over the minuscule injury. It doesn't even hurt any more.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1621874.html  
> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1602118.html


End file.
